An East Wind
by NortheasternWind
Summary: A pair of old souls share one last moment together before Holmes's resurrection.


My first foray into the enormous Sherlock Holmes fandom (and indeed, into _any_ fandom for the past few months—I haven't written for a while, and it shows), and it's for _this_ cartoon. What even am I doing.

I remember watching SH22 as a kid, mostly on days where my sister and I got up early and there was absolutely nothing on. Even then I recall us not thinking very much of the show, and attempts to rewatch it have been painful, but... it's _Sherlock Holmes_. In the _22nd century_. This concept, man, it's so fanficcable it's not even funny. Too many squeeable things to be had! But that is for another time, if I can ever work up enough inspiration and time to do anything about it. You'll have to settle for pre-resurrection fic until then!

**This oneshot contains things I do not own, unconvincing imitations of fictional characters, pathetic attempts to garner sympathy, and more dialogue than narration. **That said, please enjoy!

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><p>New London was often gloomier than the London of old: less sunshine seemed to reach the ground when it shone at all, though the airways left far more open air to let it through, and the buildings themselves were constructed of dull, colorless materials, often unpainted steel. It never had been very bright in London for long, but there had been a warmth to the city before that was largely absent now. Nonetheless, New London was beloved by its inhabitants, and none could look upon the grand clock tower at its heart and claim that the city had sacrificed the old for the new.<p>

Even were the airways surrounding Big Ben not off-limits to hovercars, none would dare come close to it; it was for this reason, and for the view it commanded, that the two men had chosen this spot for their final vigil together, perched precariously on the edge above the face of the clock. One was strongly built, tanned, mustached, the very image of the quintessential British gentleman; his friend, tall, lean and brimming with energy, paced back and forth across the ledge.

"It cannot hurt you now, but I would feel much more at ease were I sure you would not fall off," said the shorter man.

"I would only succeed in sharing your agitation if I stood still. Look at it!" the other man cried, stopping for a moment to gesture out across the great city. "Flying cars! Traffic far above the street! Dark alleys beyond the drivers' peripheral vision! One could not ask for a better environment for crime."

"You would not complain if you were still alive."

"On a slow day, perhaps not." The taller man resumed his pacing. "Indeed, perhaps even then I would, given the circumstances. Moriarty revived! To conquer and rule such a city would be child's play to a mastermind of his caliber. Scotland Yard is very often out of its league, but I fear the phrase does not do justice to their current situation. As matters stand, all my hard work will be undone, and Europe will fall once more into Moriarty's grasp."

"He would have security cameras and all the rest of today's technology to deal with."

"Pooh! Lesser minds than his have found ways past them. The problem with such supposed 'failsafes' is that one begins to take it for granted that they cannot be overcome, that they can be depended upon, and so they become useful tools for deception. As the technology of the law marches on, so too do the methods of the criminal wishing to undermine it."

The shorter man approached the edge of the tower, looking thoughtfully out over the city that had once been his home. "I don't understand why one would wish to revive Moriarty. I should think that a criminal would wish to be his own master."

"Criminals today do not _think_. They might assume that Moriarty will cater to their wishes in some sort of gratitude for his resurrection, or that they can force him to bow to their will, or that Moriarty takes care of his subordinates. They are wrong on all accounts."

"They are deluded."

"They are at their wit's end. Just as Scotland Yard once came running to me in their time of need to solve crimes, now the brainless criminals run to Moriarty to perpetrate them." The man smiled, though his friend could not see it from where he stood. "The difference here being that the criminals know not what they are dealing with."

"What will you do?"

The taller man stopped, turning to follow his friend's gaze with a sigh. "If the young Miss Lestrade fails to turn to the obvious solution, nothing. I cannot interfere in the land of the living from the realm of the dead, no matter how hard I try."

"You do her an injustice, my dear Holmes. She has already made her decision."

"Has she now!" Holmes now turned his gaze upon his companion with a smile. "She may earn her title yet. Well, I cannot say I am terribly surprised, or we might have decided to hold our little discussion in a less grandiose, more agreeable location."

"You find this disagreeable?"

"It does, as you say, pose a slight risk of sending one to his premature demise, however little we need fear that fate now. But no matter; if what you say is true, we have but a few hours to enjoy each other's company before I must abandon you once more. Forgive me, my dear Watson."

"No apologies are necessary," said Watson. "This world needs Sherlock Holmes, and if you are to return without me by your side, so be it. But Holmes, what will you do? I somehow doubt that you will be allowed to retain any memory of life after death, and all your hard-earned knowledge will be two centuries out of date."

The customary twinkle of amusement had returned to Holmes's eye. "Do not underestimate me, my dear Watson. I am a quick learner, and you know it is against my methods to make assumptions before having all the facts. It will not take very long for me to realize that the world is no longer as I once knew it, and if I know myself—as I ought, after these long years—I will doubtless find myself manually reaffirming my knowledge of even the simplest truths and customs. Adjusting to life in the 22nd century would be quite the challenge for you, my dear friend, but to the expert who has trained his mind to notice even the slightest of changes it is not so impressive a feat. I will certainly be disoriented at first, but it should not take long to see all the differences time has wrought on our fair city."

"Perhaps you will be forced to take an interest in astronomy at last. You will be rather at a loss to investigate a crime which took place in a location you have specifically refrained from learning anything about."

Holmes smiled.

"Yes, my dear Watson, it appears this is one battle I must finally concede to you. At last your useless astrophysics have found their way into my line of work."

"You should hope that Moriarty's knowledge of such matters is as outdated as your speech patterns."

"That is the pot calling the kettle black, Watson, as I believe it is said. And having no prior knowledge on the subject is an advantage, not a hindrance: as you say, the Professor's knowledge is tainted by the inaccurate conjectures of the past, where I may begin studying with a blank slate. Certainly he shall waste time disputing the conclusions society has reached since his death."

"If he is as brilliant as you claim, you will be on even footing before long."

"My dear Watson, I can never remember that you have hardly had any experience with the man yourself. You would not doubt it if you had five minute's knowledge of him. But it hardly matters. Meanwhile, allow me to take this opportunity to say that it is still immaterial whether the earth revolves around the sun or vice-versa."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Humanity's influence does not extend_ that_ far, I'm afraid, though it has certainly come a long way since our time if death and age can be overcome. Imagine, Watson! The fate which once united the greatest of minds to the lowest of fools, done away with. How unsettling!"

"It does require death by old age or other natural causes, if I am correct in my assumptions. Even if soul and vitality are returned to it, a broken body will not live very long."

"Never assume, Watson, though by chance you have hit on it: the true Moriarty cannot be 'revived', as we have been saying all this time. The man running about is merely a well-done copy. But the result is the same. Why, if not for the Professor's return, I should have rejected my own resurrection as simply tampering with Nature's order, and disturbing an old soul who has quite earned his eternal rest. But as it is, we have little choice."

Watson chuckled. "I believe you ought to withhold your complaints until your resurrection has actually taken place, Holmes."

"It would certainly feel silly to object to it so strongly only to bemoan its failure later, wouldn't it? We shall leave that ethical debate for another time, then."

"You will be waiting a long time, Holmes." Watson sobered. "If only I could accompany you! But my mortal shell is buried alongside my dear Mary, and has surely returned to dust by this time. Please forgive me."

"Never apologize, my dear Watson. If there is any fault here, it does not lie with you." Holmes lowered himself carefully to sit on the ledge, not looking to see if Watson had done the same—of course he would. "I would be rather opposed to digging up your grave simply to have you back, at any rate, even ignoring the fact that I would find nothing left to revive."

Watson _had_ taken a seat next to Holmes, and when the taller man looked at him, his friend was smiling. "Holmes, you know I would never hold you at fault for it. If it meant I could once again assist you in your adventures, I'm sure any ill will I could possibly have borne would have evaporated."

"Once again you refer to my cases as 'adventures', Watson. Ever the romanticist!" But Holmes's mirthful expression soon cleared, and he turned his gaze back to the skyline. "But it is not to be. No, Watson, this is a journey I must make alone, however much I may want you by my side. Oh, don't look like that: you know I have gotten along without you just fine in the past."

"But for an entire lifetime? It worries me, Holmes. I do not want to watch you isolate yourself in the absence of a companion."

Because Watson knew he would. _'Besides yourself, I have none'_ was Holmes's response when once Watson had asked him of his other friends, and though he was never so desperately lonely as to come running back to London in his retirement—certainly not lonely enough to uproot Watson's final resting place—Holmes would indeed be lost without his Boswell, or at least the knowledge that his Boswell was only a telegraph away. With Watson forever beyond his reach, Holmes would wake up in a world that had left him behind, with no friends to watch his back as he felt his way around the darkness.

"Yes, how will I ever prove my independence without you?" Holmes said, once again answering Watson's thoughts rather than his words.

"If you will not remember our conversation after you have returned, there is no need to play this game with me," said Watson, with some asperity. "Speak freely, Holmes! This is your last chance to do so before we part ways."

"It is exactly as you say. There is no point in any further discussion if I will fail to remember anything that is said."

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes. I know you have reservations beyond the simple matter of subverting death."

"Then I will confront them after I have subverted death." Holmes dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, and turned his gaze back to his old flatmate. "I must confess that I am rather more concerned for _your_ well-being than for my own. I cannot imagine that it will be easy to watch me place myself in such danger again, knowing that you can do absolutely nothing to help."

"It most certainly will not, if I find you pining for days and friends long gone."

"Stubborn as a bulldog! Very well, Watson, you win." Holmes sighed. "Yes, Watson, I will miss you. I would feel nothing at all had I these two centuries of memories and the knowledge that you were undoubtedly watching from on high, but as matters stand it does appear as though I shall simply awaken as though I had not died at all in the meantime. Curse those laws of Nature, which forbid any knowledge of the world after in the world before! At least I would not feel so alone if I could remember our words here."

"You will not be alone," said Watson, with a resolute tone. "You shall have the young Miss Lestrade at your side, and who knows what other friends you may find in your adventures?"

"My dear Watson, you never change. I really rather doubt that Inspector Lestrade—yes, I suppose we must get in the habit of referring to her as such—will take very kindly to the eccentricities which you so patiently endured for almost half a century, or that I will ever overcome those same aberrations long enough to think of her as anything more than our own Inspector Lestrade's replacement. Ah, do give him my apologies when you return: where you shall forever hold the seat of honor among those people who have earned a permanent spot in my memories, I fear my other acquaintances are more easily displaced, and I mean none of them any offense. But in any case, I am unlikely—and indeed, unwilling—to make new friends, and so I shall simply fall into that same routine which I adopted whenever we were not living together in Baker Street."

Watson shook his head. "You words do not inspire confidence, Holmes."

"It is you or no one at all, my dear Watson," said he.

They sat in silence for some time after this declaration, each lost in his own thoughts. Though Holmes would never admit it aloud, even in death, he abhorred the thought of anyone 'displacing' Watson from his 'seat of honor' as Holmes's most steadfast companion. He had certainly had attachments before meeting the invalided soldier, but it was _Watson_ who had somehow wormed his way into Holmes's habits, _Watson_ who had sold his practice at Holmes's request to live with him again, _Watson_ who had dragged him, writhing, from that cottage in Poldhu Bay, after agreeing without hesitation to assist him in the most disagreeable experiment Holmes would ever conduct. Holmes was not sentimental enough to believe that he had never done anything to deserve the man's friendship (Watson's state of health and mind when they first met! It was almost painful to remember), but with all the worldly difficulties of life no longer a problem for them, the very least he could do was ensure that Watson forever held a special place in the heart he so rarely thought to use. It was the_only_ thing he could do.

Holmes's heart served only two functions: to tell him the difference between right and wrong, and to remind him that he had a companion to whom he owed its continued existence. There was no room in it for much else.

"...We will both be fine, Holmes," said Watson, breaking Holmes's train of thought. "We have always found ways."

Holmes's good humor returned. "And we created our own ways where we have not. We cannot change the circumstances we may find ourselves in later, nor can I prepare myself for them in this particular case, and so we must let it be. But I still hold that you shall possess the greater of our difficulties. My dear Watson, whatever shall you do without me?"

"Spend time with my wife, for a start."

"I should really know better than to ask rhetorical questions by now. But halloa! No matter now; it appears the young Inspector Lestrade has rather exceeded our expectations with regards to wasting time."

Holmes's image had begun to fade.

Watson sprang to his feet, eyes widening. "Holmes—!"

"My dear Watson!" Holmes rose to his feet as well, reaching out to take his friend by the shoulders and hold him fast. "You betray yourself. Listen to me: do not fear for my safety, or for my happiness, while I am working. You know that the absence of one often contributes to the presence of the other."

"Holmes..."

"And do not, if I should allow myself to lament your absence, blame yourself for any unhappiness which it has caused me. The feeling would only intensify were I able to detect your agitation."

"I cannot promise that, but I shall try my best."

"That is all I can ask for. And finally, Watson," said Holmes, "if there is anything—anything at all!—which you would ask of me, now is the time to do it. To blazes with my memory! Ask it now, before I am taken beyond your reach, and while I can still hear your voice. And I want none of this 'world peace' rubbish."

Watson hesitated, then reached up and mimicked Holmes's gesture, placing his hands on the taller man's shoulders. "_Live_, Holmes. Do not make Moriarty's defeat your whole purpose."

Holmes _very_ nearly snorted. "I am afraid that falls within the same category as 'world peace', Watson. Choose something else! Something selfish, for once in your existence."

"That is all I wish for."

"Quickly, man!" Holmes cried urgently. "I feel myself fading away. Look; I am half gone."

Watson's grip tightened; his friend was indeed dissolving from the waist up. "Holmes..."

"Please, Watson! Anything at all."

Watson's jaw tightened, and he moved his grasp to grip Holmes by the arms. This was not goodbye: they would undoubtedly see each other again, someday, but who knew how long from now? Years, decades? They had shared so much longer together that Watson could not imagine being unable to speak with his best friend, even if he could watch.

"Watson?"

This was his last chance. This was _Holmes's_ last chance.

"_Watson!_"

This was _their_ last chance.

"...Don't forget me, old friend."

Holmes started, eyes widening. But there was no time for shock: already his arms were dissolving as well. He recovered quickly, and shook Watson's hands with an unrestrained, shining smile.

"My dear, dear Watson," said he, as the rest of him faded away, "how could I?"


End file.
